In The Aftermath
by mizasparkles
Summary: Post-Mizumono. Alana finds comfort in Will's own brand of comforting, after Hannibal shatters their entire respective worlds around them. Follows an Alana/Will pairing through their recovery and beyond. Rating may change as I continue.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note- This fic assumes a (mostly) happy future for my beloved Will and Alana, one that is Hannibal-free and full of cakes made of rainbows and smiles, which we all eat and be happy. I will most likely ignore the events of Red Dragon, or perhaps my Hanni-loving heart will turn cold later on. Who knows? As for now, sit back and enjoy the fluff :)

PS- feedback warms my frozen heart.

Alana has nightmares of drowning. Lying flat on her back in the pouring rain, unable to stop it from filling her lungs. Of her own blood rising in her throat, gushing through her mouth so fast she can barely register its metallic taste, dripping backwards into her lungs and finishing her off.

She has nightmares of broken glass; huge shards and tiny slivers. Piercing her back, stabbing her front, glittering as it falls through the air. It lands in her eyes and blinds her, it lands in her open mouth and embeds itself in her tongue, shreds her esophagus to ribbons on its way down.

She has nightmares of falling, of teenage hands; their innocence long gone as they hit her chest in slow motion, push her into a gracefully slow fall. A fall that never ends, that never grants her the simple grace of a myoclonic jerk to free her from the nightmare, but that keeps her stomach in a never-ending lurch.

It doesn't matter when or where she falls asleep-and she has tried _everything_ in her power to stymie their flow, from her couch to her desk-the nightmare comes as soon as the REM cycle begins. For a while, she tries power napping in short spurts to avoid reaching REM, but her body quickly tires from this and ignores her alarm, plunging her right back into the issue she was trying so hard to avoid.

When she awakes gasping, she always thinks of Will. Of how he would understand. How he would offer his own quiet brand of comfort, and how she wishes she could cozy up at his place with his dogs and Will Graham acting as a space heater. She hasn't seen him since the hospital. His own injuries, though far more severe than hers, were a quick fix compared to the delicate work it took to heal her insides and her broken bones. She remembers him coming into her room, her asking him questions to discern what was and wasn't real through her painkiller-induced haze. She learned of Abby's and Jack's survival, of Will's intestines spilling to the floor. She'd asked, almost shyly, if she could touch his scar to know that that tidbit was real. With equal shyness, he had closed the door to her room, lifted his shirt and allowed her fingers to touch the gauze protecting his sutures from contaminants. "The stitches come out next week." He'd said, watching her fingers slide up and down the place held together by medical-grade string. He'd taken her hand when she started to cry. He took his own free one to wipe the tears from her face, and whispered to her reassuringly until she fell back into dreams made horribly vivid by the influence of the painkillers.

She wanted that Will now, as she lay on her side in bed, too scared to close her eyes. She wanted him more than ever after this one, where ribbons of his intestines streamed around her as she fell, his blood showing her like the rain. He was just a phone call away, but she couldn't bring herself to tap the buttons that would summon Will in a heartbeat.

Instead she rose from bed. Autopilot mode on, she dressed herself and took her keys, got in the car and drove. She couldn't stand it, and she couldn't trust herself to not lie on the phone and say it was a mistake. "Sorry, Will, I meant to call for Chinese." She would have lied, and ignoring his protests that no Chinese place was open at three in the morning, that something was wrong and he could be there or she could come to him, she would have hung up and let it be. She knew this because she had done it twice already, and then ignored the ringing phone when he called back.

A light was on at Will's when she pulled up. She could not avoid him now, not with his dogs' cacophony of barking at the sound of her car. He was at the door before she could even ring the bell, a gun in his hand.

"Alana." He said, dropping the gun to his side. "I'm sorry, I'm just a little..."

"Paranoid?" She finished for him. He nodded.

"Come in." She stepped into the house and was immediately greeted by Will's furry housemates, all vying for her attention. "They never forget a hand that feeds them." She smiled at that, scratching Winston behind the ears. Oh, how he had caused her trouble all that time poor Will was locked away, making her chase him here every time he managed to slip through her grasp.

"Came to pick up your Chinese food in person?" Her head snapped up at Will's sudden breaking of the silence. A blush crept up her cheeks in spite of herself. "It's okay, Alana. I know. I have them too. About me, about you, about Abby and Jack. About Beverly, about...about _him_ too."

"Tonight was the first time it wasn't just about me." He remains silent on the couch, allowing her to lead the conversation. She continues to play with Winston for a few moments before she continues. "They're always just about me. About drowning in the rain, or in my own blood. About glass. And falling, almost always falling. But tonight..." She trails off again, turning her attention to the dog. "Tonight it was about you. And I knew they were getting worse. And I couldn't pretend I was okay, and just awake, ordering Chinese food from some mythical place that's both open and delivering in the middle of the night."

"You needed someone be there with you through it." She nods, not looking up from the dogs. Another person, the kind you find in romantic fiction tales or movies, would have stood from the couch and scooped her into his arms. Not Will. That was what she liked about this impromptu arrangement, that he would sit there on the couch, watching her give Winston a belly rub, waiting until _she_ was ready to take whatever the next step was.

"Can I touch your scar?" She asks, surprised at her own sudden boldness. He nods, letting her come sit next to him and raise his shirt. "It's silly, I know, but I just..." She touches the raised pinkish line on his belly. "I think I just need to make damn sure that all of you is where it's supposed to be, and that it's not going anywhere."

"Nightmares can be one of the most disorienting experiences." He says softly, watching her fingertips trace the line. She nods, blinking back tears.

"Can I stay tonight?"

"You can stay as long as you need. Whenever you need." She nods, and lays her head against his shoulder so he won't see her cry. He doesn't let her know he knows she is crying, though his entire being calls out to comfort her. "Just do me a favor." He says, after a while.

"What?" She raises her tear streaked head, and sniffles.

"Next time you mistakenly call me instead of food delivery, at least make it Domino's. I hear there's a 24-hour one near you." He's smiling, and she gives a feeble laugh, letting herself be comforted by his embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note- Though not explicitly stated, this spans a period of a few months in which Will and Alana continue their little sleeping arrangement.

* * *

><p>At first they don't sleep together, not in any sense of the word.<p>

Alana insists on the couch, though it hurts her still-healing back something awful. Will tries to argue that point, and fails, then tries to argue the point that she is not used to so many dogs, and fails, then exhausts every point in his arsenal before he finally caves in and brings her his best pillow and a warm blanket. They go through it every time she comes to sleep over, and every time Alana's stubbornness wins out. "You can't blame a guy for trying." He says, wishing her good dreams and leaving her with a smile.

She pays for her stubbornness every morning with a horribly sore back, but feels good knowing that, of all the things robbed from Will in recent months, some even robbed by her, she hasn't taken the man's bed.

Will brings her two Aspirin and a fresh cup of coffee in the mornings, to take her mind off the pain and ease some of his own guilt at not parking himself on the couch when he hears her car pull up.

* * *

><p>Alana is the one who brings about the end of the couch business, about two months into their sleepover arrangements. She is having a rare good dream when she is startled awake by a noise. A human noise, she realizes as she emerges from her sleep fog, a very Will Graham-sounding noise. A noise like he is in pain.<p>

Her mind jumps to her worst fears as she jumps to her feet. She is in full adrenaline fight mode, thinking of probable places for Will to stash his gun, of the best way to approach the situation. She settles for a knife and does her best to keep silent as she creeps up the stairs, cursing inwardly at every creak of wood.

Will's door is slightly ajar. Her breath catches in her throat as she holds her knife at arm's length. A knife is a poor substitute for a gun, and she is admittedly not skilled in the use of either as a weapon, but it is better than facing her new worst fear with nothing in her hands. _Be **brave**, Alana. Don't be_ _blind, _she repeats to herself, steeling herself for the worst.

When she jumps in, she finds only a fretful Will, still trapped in sleep. She lets the knife clatter to the floor and doesn't think twice about going to him. About shaking him awake.

"Alana? What is it? What's wrong?" He asks, as he recognizes the person sitting beside him on his bed, her eyes wide with fear.

"I heard you moaning and it sounded like...it sounded like someone was hurting you." He knows who the someone is without asking. He doesn't hesitate to hug her to reassure her that it was just a nightmare, that Hannibal Lecter wasn't back to finish the job he started all those months ago. "This should be the other way around." She says, chuckling. "I should be the one holding you."

"We're kind of...holding each other." He points out. "It's nice." He murmurs, after a few minutes of silence. It is quite nice, she thinks, being enveloped in warm arms and the faint smell of his deodorant, with Will absently playing with her ponytail. She doesn't think about stroking small circles on his back, noting the softness of his t-shirt and making a mental note to ask him where he bought it.

"Do you want to stay?" He asks after a while. "You don't...you don't have to." He stammers, letting go of her as he realizes what he's just asked.

"I think I want to." She smiles. "At least you'll save on the Aspirin in the morning."

* * *

><p>It doesn't cure the nightmares, the new sleeping arrangements. They both know this. They know the intricacies of a human mind that has undergone trauma well enough to know that the other is not a cure-all for the trauma they had survived. That there might not even <em>be<em> a cure all; Will's arms holding her in an embrace won't replace Abby's pushing ones, and Alana's scent won't replace the stench of blood that permeates through his own nightmares. The nightmares still hit heavy and often, no matter how many times they share a bed.

But there is something in the human contact that comes immediately following the jolt awake. There is something lovely about being pulled back from the abyss just when it gets to its apex, getting to wake up and fall straight into warm arms and reassuring whispers, getting to snuggle on the couch with warm mugs of tea and dogs when sleep won't come back.

Will whispers his first "I love you." on one of those nights, his lips grazing Alana's ear as he breathes the words ever so softly. He half-hopes she won't hear him; he's not sure how she feels, whether this is something she too wants, and he is terrified of alienating her. The one person left who can offer him that kind of comfort he has become so accustomed to as of late.

It all but melts him in her arms when she smiles, turns her head and whispers her own "I love you." back.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note- I hope everyone is enjoying thus far! Sorry if my updates are sporadic. Unfortunately life likes to get in the way.

* * *

><p>They accidentally become official when Alana lets the word "boyfriend" slip while on the phone with her brother Noam.<p>

She doesn't even pause to register the alien nature of the word on her tongue, as she keeps pushing her grocery cart (notably devoid of meat) down the aisle in search of food for the dogs that have slowly become _theirs_. She even smiles, feeling a warmth spread through her, as she answers Noam's questions. "_Yes_, I said boyfriend." "_Yes_ it's Will Graham." "_Yes_ I'm okay!" She practically exclaims the last one, exasperated that her own brother would doubt her instincts and believe the bilge that Freddie Lounds liked to publish. "I must have told you a million times what happened, in the hospital."_  
><em>

"You didn't, actually." Noam says on the other end. "You kept asking for Blue Horse, and telling me to make the room stop changing colors."

"I did _NOT_." Her cheeks turn red at the mention of her favorite stuffed animal from childhood.

"You did _SO._" She pauses to lift a heavy bag of dry dog food into the cart. "Okay, you asked for Blue Horse _once_. Can't a guy mock his baby sister every once in a while?"

"You're a jerk brother, Noam Bloom."

"But I'm _your_ jerk brother. But seriously. I trust you. I just have to make sure, after...well, after the incident with the window and all."

He's right, and she can't stay mad at him for long. After all, he was the one who slept in the waiting room practically every night from the moment he found out she was in the hospital. Who held her hand while she cried out in agony when the painkillers weren't enough, who handled everything back at home, who kept Freddie Lounds at bay. He'd even snuck in her favorite: black-and-white cookies, when she was well enough to eat again. So it is on good terms that she hangs up the phone, takes a deep breath, and artfully avoids looking at the slabs of Saran-Wrapped meat as she passes through the meat aisle.

* * *

><p>It goes without saying that nowadays they are both mostly vegetarians. Alana all but screamed when she was presented with a hospital tray bearing meatloaf (that was another thing she had Noam to thank for, arranging that she only get vegetarian meals). Will had merely vomited profusely when he attempted to eat the same meal, a few floors away from Alana. It finally caught up to him there, in the hospital bed, that he'd been eating <em>people. <em>

Fish is their one exception. Will refuses to stop fishing on account of Hannibal the Cannibal, who took so many precious things from Will's life already. "He can't have this, too." He tells his new psychiatrist, who encourages it. It's a good thing to have, she tells Will. Something that cannot be tainted by memories. And so he keeps on fishing. Even brings Alana along, after a fashion. He is initially afraid that she will see it for what it is, two people going on a killing spree, with the intent of desecrating and eating the shiny-scaled creatures that wiggle violently on the ends of their hooks. But she doesn't really think of it as anything but Will Graham sharing a passion of his with his girlfriend.

She always ducks out when it comes time to scale and gut their catch. He doesn't mind. He always accepts her feeble excuses of needing to put aloe on her sunburnt face, even when she remembers to slather it in sunscreen before. Alana isn't protected by years' of mental images of his father's hands teaching him how and imparting on him his wisdom and stories. Alana will see Will being gutted with a knife, see herself being slapped into concrete as he slaps the fish on his work table, while Will can retreat to a corner of his mind filled with sunshine and his father.

"I should probably stop making excuses for self-care." Alana breaks the silence in the car, when they're driving back from a particularly good afternoon of fishing. "It's not fair to play pretend with you."

"No, it's not." He agrees. "Besides, I think I'd know if that adorable nose of yours was sunburnt." He teases, eliciting a smile from the passenger seat. God, he still feels like a child dropped smack dab in the middle of Disney World when she flashes that smile... "I think you know this, but you don't...you don't ever need to make excuses for self-care with me. Or feel like you have to pretend."

"I have this need to protect you from that side of me. Not _just_ you, but it's stronger with you."

"From your vulnerable side?"

"From my damaged side."

"You're not-" he begins, but quiets when she raises her hand.

"There may always be a side of me that's been damaged by him, Will. Of you too. Look at all that's changed for us this past year. It goes beyond physical scars and odd twinges of pain. You and I both know how too well how trauma affects the human mind. There's no way around that fact." He swallows hard. It's the truth, and he knows it. He's known it from the moment he realized who Hannibal was. What Hannibal was. Still, he can't help but try to use lines from the unwritten, unspoken rules of being a good boyfriend, in his almost childish hopes to restore Alana to her full, pre-Hannibal self.

"It's unfair of me to try to shield you from what you already know, as if you're a child being kept in the dark." _Ouch_.

"Do you see me as a child?" His retort comes out sharp; years of people walking around eggshells around him, treating him as if he were fragile made him sensitive to such remarks.

"Probably a bad analogy."

"_Definitely_ a bad analogy." He makes the turn onto the county road that begins the last leg of their trip home. "But...I won't hold a poor choice of words against you. Or your stubborn need to shield me from what we've both been through." She reaches across the center console to squeeze his thigh, he rewards her with a smile.

As they pull into his driveway, Alana breaks the silence again, taking a deep breath before she speaks. "While you take care of the fish, I am going to go inside and take care of myself. Because the sight and the reality of it is too much for me to handle, it reminds me of..." Her breath catches, Will finds himself pulling her into his arms as he spots the first sign of tears and the potential of a panic attack. "It reminds me of _that_." Her words are muffled against his t-shirt.

"And that is more than okay." He whispers into her hair.

"That was surprisingly simple." She says, when she feels strong enough to pull away. Will gives her an encouraging smile, watching her go inside the house before going to prepare his catch for dinner.


End file.
